


A Lion In Highgarden (Rewrite!)

by demogorgns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Non-Canon Relationship, Politics, War, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18721885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demogorgns/pseuds/demogorgns
Summary: The War of the Five Kings may be over, but the Lannisters still need House Tyrell. To strengthen their alliance, House Lannister sends its last daughter to wed the future Lord of Highgarden and save her family. But will she learn to love her future husband? And can she guide herself and her House through the wars to come?(Rewrite!)





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of a fic i started in 2016! i really liked the characters and situation and wanted to start over with more detail and tighter plotting, so here we are! hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading

Dramatis Personae  {Note:  **bolded** are actually present, [bracketed] are deceased}

 

The Bride:  
**Celia Lannister** , a maid of eight-and-ten, ward and niece of Lord Tywin Lannister

Her Family:  
[Gerion Lannister], her father, lost at sea  
[Lady Briony Marbrand], her mother, died of childbed fever

**Joy Hill** , her baseborn sister, a maid of three-and-ten

[Lord Tywin Lannister], her uncle and guardian  
[Lady Joanna Lannister], his wife, died in childbed

  * Queen Cersei Lannister, Dowager Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, twin to Ser Jaime
  * Ser Jaime Lannister, called the Kingslayer, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, twin to Queen Cersei
  * Tyrion Lannister, called the Imp, missing presumed dead
  * Sansa Stark, his wife, also missing



[Ser Kevan], her uncle, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms  
Lady Dorna Swyft, his wife

  * Lancel Lannister, his son, Lord of Darry
  * [Willem Lannister], his son, twin to Martyn
  * Martyn Lannister, his son, twin to Willem
  * **Janei Lannister** , his daughter, a maid of three-and-ten



Lady Genna Lannister, her aunt  
Lord Emmon Frey, her husband

  * [Ser Cleos Frey], her son
  * Jeyne Darry, his wife
  * Tywin Frey, his son
  * Willem Frey, his son
  * Lyonel Frey, her son
  * [Tion Frey], her son
  * Walder Frey, her son, called Red Walder



[Ser Tygett Lannister], her uncle, died from a pox  
**Lady Darlessa Marbrand** , his wife

  * Tyrek Lannister, his son, missing presumed dead since the King’s Landing riot
  * Lady Ermesande Hayford, his wife, a babe



**Ser Damon Lannister** , older brother to Lady Joanna  
**Lady Ella Lannister** , his wife

  * Ser Damion Lannister, his son, castellan of Casterly Rock
  * **Lady Sheira Crakehall** , his wife
  * **Ser Lucion Lannister** , his son
  * Lanna Lannister, his daughter, m. Lord Antario Jast



[Ser Stafford Lannister], younger brother to Lady Joanna, died at the Battle of Oxcross

  * Ser Daven Lannister, his son, Warden of the West
  * **Lady Cerenna Lannister** , his daughter, a woman of five-and-twenty
  * **Lady Myrielle Lannister** , his daughter, a maid of five-and-ten



**Damon Marbrand** , Lord of Ashemark, her grandfather

  * Ser Addam Marbrand, his son and heir



Her Ladies and Companions:

**Lady Darlessa Marbrand,** her aunt

**Lady Sheira Crakehall,** her cousin 

**Lady Cerenna Lannister,** her cousin

**Lady Myrielle Lannister,** her cousin

**Lady Janei Lannister,** her cousin

**Lady Alysanne Lefford,** Lady of the Golden Tooth

**Joy Hill,** her baseborn sister

**Septa Evelyn** , her septa

 

The Bridegroom:  
**Willas Tyrell** , heir to Highgarden, five-and-twenty

 

His Family:  


Lord Mace Tyrell, his father, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Hand of the King

  * **Lady Alerie Hightowe** r, his mother
  * **Ser Garlan Tyrell** , his brother, Lord of Brightwater Keep
  * **Lady Leonette Fossoway** , his wife
  * Ser Loras Tyrell, his brother, called the Knight of Flowers, a brother of the Kingsguard
  * Queen Margaery Tyrell, his sister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms  




**Lady Olenna Redwyne** , his grandmother, called the Queen of Thorns

**Lady Mina Tyrell** , his aunt  
**Lord Paxter Redwyne** , her husband

  * **Ser Horas Redwyne** , her son, twin to Hobber
  * **Ser Hobber Redwyne** , her son, twin to Horas
  * **Desmera Redwyne** , her daughter, a maid of seven and ten



**Lady Janna Tyrell** , his aunt  
**Ser Jon Fossowa** y, her husband

**Garth Tyrell** , his great-uncle, called Garth the Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden

  * **Garse Flowers** , his natural son
  * **Garrett Flowers** , his natural son



Ser Moryn Tyrell, his great-uncle, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown

  * [Ser Luthor Tyrell], his son
  * **Lady Elyn Norridge** , his wife
  * **Ser Theodore Tyrell** , his son
  * **Lady Lia Serry** , his wife
  * Elinor Tyrell, his daughter, handmaiden to Queen Margaery, imprisoned in King’s Landing
  * **Luthor Tyrell** , his son
  * Maester Medwick, his son, a maester of the Citadel
  * **Olene Tyrell** , his daughter
  * **Ser Leo Blackbar** , her husband
  * Leo Tyrell, his son, called Lazy Leo, studying at the Citadel



Maester Gormon, his great uncle, a maester of the Citadel

[Ser Quentyn Tyrell], a cousin of Lord Mace, slain at the Battle of Ashford

  * Ser Olymer Tyrell, his son
  * **Lady Lysa Meadows** , his wife
  * **Raymund Tyrell** , his son
  * **Rickard Tyrell** , his son
  * Megga Tyrell, his daughter, handmaiden to Queen Margaery, imprisoned in King’s Landing



Maester Normund, a cousin of Lord Mace, in service at Blackcrown

[Ser Victor Tyrell], a cousin of Lord Mace, slain by the Smiling Knight  
**Victaria Tyrell** , his daughter

  * [Lord Jon Bulwer], her husband
  * **Lady Alysanne Bulwer** , her daughter, the Lady of Blackcrown



**Ser Leo Tyrell** , his son

  * **Lady Alys Beesbury** , his wife
  * Alla Tyrell, his daughter, handmaiden to Queen Margaery, imprisoned in King’s Landing
  * **Leona Tyrell** , his daughter
  * **Lyonel Tyrell** , his son
  * **Lucas Tyrell** , his son
  * **Lorent Tyrell** , his son



 The Wedding Guests - Lords of the Westerlands:

**Damon Marbrand** , Lord of Ashemark

**Quenten Banefort** , Lord of Banefort

**Tytos Brax** , Lord of Hornvale

  * Ser Flement Brax, his brother and heir
  * Lady Morya Frey, Ser Flement’s wife
  * Robert Brax, Ser Flement’s eldest son, a page at Casterly Rock
  * Walder Brax, Ser Flement’s second son
  * Jon Brax, Ser Flement’s youngest son



**Roland Crakehall** , Lord of Crakehall

  * **Ser Tybolt Crakehall** , his eldest son and heir
  * Ser Lyle Crakehall, his second son, called Strongboar
  * **Ser Merlon Crakehall** , his third son



**Terrence Kenning** , Lord of Kayce

**Alysanne Lefford** , Lady of the Golden Tooth

**Lewys Lydden** , Lord of the Deep Den

**Garrison Prester** , Lord of Feastfires

 The Wedding Guests - Lords of the Reach:

  **Lord Arthur Ambrose**

  * **Lady Alysanne Hightower** , his wife
  * Alyn Ambrose, their son, a squire



  **Lorent Caswell** , Lord of Bitterbridge and Defender of the Fords

 Leyton Hightower, Lord of the Hightower, called the Old Man of Oldtown

  * **Lady Rhea Florent** , his fourth wife
  * **Ser Baelor Hightower** , his eldest son and heir, called Baelor Brightsmile, m.  **Rhonda Rowan**
  * Malora Hightower, his eldest daughter, called the Mad Maid
  * **Alerie Hightower** , his second daughter, m. Lord Mace Tyrell
  * **Ser Garth Hightower** , his second son, called Garth Greysteel
  * **Denyse Hightower** , his third daughter, m.  **Ser Desmond Redwyne**
  * **Leyla Hightower** , his fourth daughter, m.  **Ser Jon Cupps**
  * **Alysanne Hightower** , his fifth daughter, m.  **Lord Arthur Ambrose**
  * Lynesse Hightower, his sixth daughter, m. Ser Jorah Mormont; now concubine to Tregor Ormollen in Lys
  * **Ser Gunthor Hightower** , his third son, m.  **Jeyne Fossoway**
  * **Ser Humfrey Hightower** , his fourth son



**Arwyn Oakheart** , Lady of Old Oak

  * [Ser Arys Oakheart], her youngest son, a brother of the Kingsguard, slain by Areo Hotah in Dorne



**Paxter Redwyne** , Lord of the Arbor

  * **Lady Mina Tyrell** , his wife
  * **Ser Horas Redwyne** , his son, twin to Ser Hobber
  * **Ser Hobber Redwyne** , his son, twin to Ser Horas
  * **Desmera Redwyne** , his daughter




	2. Celia I

The day Celia Lannister left the Rock dawned misty and cool, the weak sunlight turning the mists that flowed down the mountains to rivers of pale gold. The Lower Yard was buzzing with activity, the walls of the cavernous courtyard echoing with shouts, the clatter of hooves and piercing whinnies as Celia’s guard mounted up, grooms and manservants dashing back and forth with pieces of tack and chests of clothes, her ladies and the other wedding guests shouting commands.

Celia sat cocooned in the enormous red wheelhouse with its gilded wheels, wrapped in a warm red wool cloak, Septa Evelyn with her embroidery in her lap opposite her; and Joy Hill, her younger baseborn sister and handmaiden, at her right hand. The nerves that had flooded Celia’s stomach all day had prevented her from eating a thing at breakfast, and she huddled further down into the folds of the cloak, feeling utterly dejected.

Saying goodbye to the castle and its inhabitants had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. The thought of never again seeing Marya, Cook, Maester Creylen, the kitchen girls and worst of all, the Small Library filled with all her favourite books, filled her with abject misery. Maester Creylen had allowed her to pack a few of her favourites, but Septa Evelyn had not approved, saying she couldn’t spend all her time with her nose buried in a book when she got to Highgarden.  _We’ll see about that_ , Celia had thought, uncharacteristically rebellious.

Joy looked at her older sister, saw her grim expression, and smiled, nudging her with an elbow.

“Cheer up. It’ll be an adventure,” she whispered.

“For you, maybe,” Celia replied in an equally hushed voice, though in decidedly more glum tones. “For me, it’ll be all dinners and curtseys and platitudes.” _It’s what I was born for,_ she reminded herself silently, _what my lord uncle had me trained for. To bring honour to my House._ When Celia looked at Joy, though, bouncing with excitement in her seat, she wished that were her. _She may be baseborn, but at least she’s free._

Her sister was three-and-ten. She shared Celia’s softly curling golden hair, but her eyes were the blue of her mother, a daughter of a wealthy Lannisport goldsmith. Celia’s father, Gerion, had supported mother and child until he disappeared when Celia was ten and Joy five, at which point his brother Lord Tywin brought the girl to Casterly Rock, to be raised as her trueborn sister’s handmaiden.

Three days earlier, the girls had been playing on the strand below the Rock, their bare feet kicking up the golden sand and warm surf. It had been Celia and Joy, Cerenna, Myrielle, Martyn and Janei, their cousins, and young Joanna Swyft; accompanied by the pages Red Walder Frey and Robert Brax, Celia’s aunt Genna, Lady Myranda Lefford, Lady Dorna Swyft, Septa Evelyn and Lynora Hill. The women sat on the sand or the rocks on blankets and watched the young ones play with careful, wary eyes. Lady Dorna was still all in black, mourning for her boy Willem, Martyn’s twin; for a time she had stood out among the ladies of the Rock, but now they all dressed in black, for their Lord Tywin – all except Celia, the bride-to-be, who could still dress colourfully.

The days were still warm in the West, though a couple of recent rains and storms out to sea heralded the arrival of winter. It made Celia sad, as she perched on a rock and looked out over the golden waves. Summer was all she had ever known. Summer, and the Rock. She hugged her knees through her white skirts, and then drew the piece of parchment out from where she had tucked it in her bodice.

Celia had read and re-read the letter from Willas Tyrell, her betrothed, a thousand times. The paper was crumpled and worn now, the ink smudged, and the gold wax seal with the rose of Highgarden long since crumbled to dust. Her reply to him had been overseen by her aunt Genna, her septa, Maester Creylen, and even Ser Damion, who was castellan of Casterly Rock in her uncle Kevan’s absence; she was glad of it. Had she been left to come up with a suitable response herself, she felt sure she would have never found the words.

She unfolded the parchment again.

_Dear Lady Celia,_

_I hope the news of our betrothal pleases you as much as it does me. In this time of war and uncertainty, it gladdens me more than words can say; that there will be a wedding here in Highgarden to bring joy to my life, and the lives of my people, once again. Our families are bound together by ties of love and marriage already; but I know that we two will be bound in love soon also. I understand that Highgarden is long leagues away from Casterly Rock, and that you may be apprehensive at the thought of leaving your home, but let me assure you that Highgarden is, to my mind, one of the most beautiful places on earth; and I hope to give you a warm welcome when you arrive here, your new home. I know you will grow to love it, as much as I do._

_With all my regard,_

_Willas Tyrell_

Celia didn’t know why she was reading it _yet again,_ as if the words might have changed since she last looked at it that morning when she woke. _But so formal. So reserved._ He spoke of love, but Celia knew that was all for show, that was what you said when you were betrothed to someone. _When I get to Highgarden, I will have to make him love me, for real._ The thought made her sick. She was told often that she was pretty, but she hated talking to men – she never knew what to say to them, how to be witty and flirtatious like Cerenna and Myrielle, how to charm. She only knew how to be polite, but courtesy did nothing to encourage passion.

In the sea, Red Walder was dunking Robert Brax in the water whenever his mother Lady Genna looked away, while Janei scolded him and Joy shrieked with laughter. Martyn was chasing a screaming Myrielle across the sand with a handful of seaweed. Cerenna had noticed Celia on the rocks, and waded through the ankle-deep shallows towards her, clutching her black silk skirts up out of the waves.

“You look pensive, cousin. Is aught amiss?” Cerenna had a tone about her that always sounded slightly mocking, even when she didn’t mean to be. She was seven years Celia’s senior, a woman grown, and still unwed, though there were whispers she had plenty of lovers. Celia had never paid the whispers any mind. She had always loved Cerenna as the older sister she had never had.

“Nothing,” Celia sighed in reply. The sun was sinking lower and lower over the sea, streaking the sky pink and gold and gilding the tops of the waves. “I was just thinking how I’ll miss this view, is all.”

“Highgarden has plenty of pretty sights. Loras Tyrell, for one,” Cerenna laughed. Celia gave her a knowing smile. Cerenna sat beside her on her rock. “And your betrothed was no gargoyle either, when last I saw him, though certainly not as handsome as his brothers, I’m afraid. And that was a good few years ago now. I suppose he could have gotten even more hideous since then –”

Celia elbowed her older cousin. “Oh, leave off, you harpy,” she laughed playfully, and Cerenna laughed too, and put an arm around Celia’s shoulders. They both watched the waves in quiet companionship for a while.

“Truly, cousin,” Cerenna said softly. “The Rock is beautiful, but it is only stone. It cannot love you back.”

_Will Willas Tyrell love me back? Will I love him?_ She could not imagine any marriage to be adequate replacement for all the happy years spent in her childhood home.

In the wheelhouse, Celia stifled a yawn as Septa Evelyn stuck her head out of the window, anxious to be gone.

“Dear me, whatever’s taking so long?”

“Don’t worry, septa,” said Ser Lucion from atop his blood bay destrier. Ser Lucion was another of Celia’s cousins, the leader of her honour guard, and one of the many Lannister relatives that would be accompanying Celia to Highgarden. “We’ll be off soon enough, once the gate’s open.”

Most of her extended family were scattered across the Seven Kingdoms by the war, but even with half the West gone to the Riverlands or King’s Landing, the Rock was still full of people able and willing to travel to Highgarden for a wedding (and the food and entertainment it was guaranteed to include). _But not the cousins I really want, though._ Celia shook her head to herself. Joy gave her a quizzical side-ways look.

The Inner Gate of Casterly Rock was a massive contraption of wood and iron that spanned the entire entrance to the natural cavern which was the Lower Yard. Opening it was a ceremony of grating metal cogs, creaking chains and groaning wood which took several minutes to perform, but as the huge door slowly inched its way upwards, Celia was treated to the sight of the dawn sunlight flooding in through the gap, illuminating the cavern.

It was a beautiful day, sunny but still cold; misty and bright. Before them was spread the tableau of golden mountains, a few already capped with a sprinkling of snow, the high road winding its way through the tall peaks. To the left of the Rock was the road Celia’s party would take, the Ocean Road, the fastest and safest way to the Reach. As they clattered over the lowered drawbridge, out of the passage they called the Lion’s Mouth and onto the road, Celia turned and strained out of the window to catch a glimpse of her home. Casterly Rock loomed over them still, but as they drew off with a clamour of shouts, trumpets and waving banners, the castle began to recede. Celia stared as long as she could, until Septa Evelyn said, “Really, Celia, must you stare at it the whole journey? You won’t be gone forever, you know. I’m sure your lord husband will allow you to visit.”

_But it won’t be the same. I’ll never be a child there again, running through the halls._ “I’m sure you’re right, septa. I will miss it, though.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will, child, but you must endure it,” replied Septa Evelyn, going back to her sewing as if that settled the matter.

Celia had spoken not a word of protest in the many moons since she had been told of her betrothal, too apprehensive and embarrassed to even talk of it. She had simply done as her septa advised and _endured_ , all through the dressmakers fussing over her new wardrobe and the whirlwind of preparations and the endless congratulations and talk of future happiness and children. Everyone had told her how lucky she was, that it was a very fine match, that if her parents were still here they would be very proud, and Celia had tried to believe them, but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt used - like a cyvasse piece being placed around the board against her will.

Only one thing that anyone had said had stuck in her mind and given her strength. Celia’s hardest goodbye had been to her parents, in the crypt deep within the bowels of the Rock. She had laid a posy of lady’s lace on her mother’s tomb, as she had every time she had visited since she was a child. She never knew why lady’s lace in particular; perhaps someone had told her that her mother liked them. Celia had never known Lady Briony herself - she had died of a fever barely two days after giving birth to her daughter. As Celia laid a hand on her father’s empty tomb, her aunt Genna had appeared in the doorway.

“I thought I might find you down here.”

“I was just saying goodbye.”

“Good. This may be your last chance to visit them in a long time.”

Celia looked at her aunt for a long moment, holding back her tears. Lady Genna noticed her niece’s mood immediately and took her in her arms.

“There now, sweetling. There’s no need to cry.”

“I don’t know what do. I don’t want to _go_. I don’t even know him! What if he’s cruel, or ugly - what if he doesn’t like me?” Her childish fears spilled shamefully from her mouth, stupid things Celia had dared not express aloud, even to herself.

Lady Genna pulled back to look Celia in the eyes. “Stop this nonsense at once,” she said firmly but not unkindly, holding Celia at arm’s length. “Sweetheart, I know how difficult this is. Believe me, my marriage was not an exciting prospect for me either. But I bore it, no matter how terrible it seemed at the time, because I remembered one thing: I am a Lannister. A lioness, a daughter of the Rock. When you get to Highgarden, you’ll be lonely, you’ll be scared, you’ll be surrounded by strangers. But you must always remember who you are. Not a Tyrell, a _Lannister_.”

Lady Genna lead her niece to a different tomb. Lord Tywin had been interred in the crypt only a few weeks before, with all the lords of the West in attendance. Only Celia, and the ladies she would bring with her to Highgarden, had been allowed out of mourning dress since. Her lord uncle’s tomb was carved with his likeness, armoured in red paint, gilded paint picking out his stone sword and the roaring lion carved on his helmet.

“You must be strong for him,” Lady Genna said softly, placing her arms on Celia’s shoulders. “You may be Gerion’s seed, but Tywin raised you.” Celia’s uncle had been her legal guardian, though she would have said she was raised by Septa Evelyn and Maester Creylen more than her stern, distant uncle. She did not say that, though. “He made this match for _you,_ child, because he knew you would not disappoint him. He knew you would be the glue, to bind House Tyrell to us, to keep them loyal. To do that, you have to be strong, and clever; as strong and clever as Lord Tywin.” She turned Celia around to face her. “Can you do that?”

Celia nodded shakily. Lady Genna smiled at her. “After all, what can some silly golden flowers do to a lioness?”

Lady Genna had left the Rock herself the day after that, off to Riverrun to join her husband Emmond Frey and Ser Daven Lannister, the Warden of the West. Celia had felt her loss keenly, though she had not wept as her aunt’s wheelhouse clattered away down the road.

_As strong and clever as Lord Tywin. A lioness, of the Rock._ Celia remembered her aunt’s words as the Lannister procession made its ponderous way down the Ocean Road to Highgarden, the sun turning the waves into smooth blue glass. The mists had all burned away by midday, and although the air was still chilly, the day was fine enough. Celia stared out of the window of the wheelhouse all day, musing on her future in Highgarden. She had never seen the castle, though she had read about it extensively, and her cousin Cerenna and others of Celia’s ladies had visited it for tourneys, balls, and weddings past. Still, Celia felt she didn’t know quite what to expect. All she knew was it was bound to be beautiful; the Tyrells were the second richest family in Westeros, and they loved to remind people at every chance they got.

Celia’s stomach growled, and she began to regret not eating anything at breakfast. The further they got from the Rock, the calmer she felt, the rocking of the wheelhouse soothing her, but nevertheless her apprehension remained as the day wore on. Joy chattered ceaselessly, even after Septa Evelyn scolded her, a happy babble that faded to calming, familiar background noise in Celia’s ears. The sisters played ‘I spy’ and ‘Guess the flower’ like little girls, distracting Celia from her boredom and anxiety. By nightfall, they had long since left the Rock behind, and Ser Lucion informed them that they were making good time; even so, it would be weeks before they even got close to Highgarden.

They made camp in a sheltered area a little off the road, beneath a great overhang of rock. Lannister guardsmen made a perimeter of steel around the camp, and Ser Lucion directed them to make firepits and start cooking. Soon, the delicious smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat filled the cool night air. They all ate in a big, red-silk pavilion; Celia, her ladies, Ser Lucion, his grandfather Ser Damon, _Celia’s_ grandfather Lord Damon Marbrand, and many other knights and lords of the Westerlands, all sworn to House Lannister. It reassured Celia some, to look at their faces and their red cloaks and the golden lions on their breasts, and know she would have friends in Highgarden. _They all loved my father, and were loyal men of my lord uncle’s until the day he died. I have nothing to fear._ Celia was the centre of their attention, the bride-to-be, the future Lady of Highgarden, and she couldn’t help but bask a little in the ceremony and the deference all her cousins now showed her. Even her little sister, Joy, treated her with more reverence than usual.

Still, her doubts lingered. She lay in her bed that night with Joy to one side of her, and Myrielle at the other, as they had been chosen to share her pillows and her whispers that night. They slept soundly, dreaming no doubt of the beauty and chivalry of Highgarden, but Celia could not join them. She stared at the silk ceiling of her pavilion until morning poked her golden fingers beneath the walls.

It appeared that Septa Evelyn had planned exactly how they were to spend the long weeks on the road to Highgarden, a prospect that did not thrill Celia, nor her little sister Joy.

“Just because we are no longer in the castle does not mean I intend to neglect your studies,” the septa told the girls primly as they set off once more at dawn. “I have endeavoured these last few months to prepare you for your duties as a new bride, Celia, but I fear you still need my guidance. You still show little aptitude for the high harp and the bells, and though I’ve long given up hope of you mastering arithmetic, I still think you can improve your needlework - Celia, are you listening to me?”

Celia raised her head from her book. “Hmm? Oh, yes, septa.” Joy giggled.

“Put down that book at once and look at me when I speak to you. What is it, anyway?”

“A history of the Reach, septa. I thought it might be useful to become more familiar with the place I am to call home. Maester Creylen said this books would tell me all I need to know about the politics and families of the Reach.”

“Yes, for sure - although your lord husband will oversee all political matters. You needn't bother yourself with all that. All you need concern yourself with is being a dutiful and obedient wife and mother.”

Celia cringed inwardly. Whenever someone mentioned children or motherhood, a thrill of fear went through her, and she was reminded of her own mother – dead, of childbed fever. She dare not voice these concerns, though, for she knew what the answer would be - she must endure.

“Yes, septa.”

“Now then, to business. This long journey is the perfect opportunity for you to practise your needlepoint, I think. Have you both brought the pieces you were working on?”

Celia and Joy both let out an audible groan then, and rolled their eyes at each other. Three whole weeks of sitting in a wheelhouse practising their sewing while their septa tutted and fussed?  _As if the situation were not dire enough_ , Celia thought bitterly.

“Celia Lannister, do not make that face at me. Ladies do not make faces, and neither do they groan. Now, let me see how far you’ve gotten with this piece.”

Celia resigned herself to a long, boring journey.

“Yes, septa.”

Celia’s first view of Highgarden came as the wheelhouse bumped and groaned its way up the wide, sweeping road, surrounded by cheering smallfolk gaping and waving, desperate to catch a glimpse of the future Lady of Highgarden. Over several weeks, they had watched the landscape change from the snow-capped mountains cut with little streams and wild moors of the West, to the rolling hills, fields of golden wheat and autumn flowers of the Reach.

The Lannister procession was small and meagre compared to the huge display they might have put on in peacetime, but their welcome to the Reach was no less warm because of it. They had been feted and feasted at every castle and holdfast they had come to along the Ocean Road, and Celia was exhausted from the endless socialising before they’d even gotten close to Highgarden itself. How she was to bear the endless feasts and dances, culminating, of course, in her wedding, she had no idea.

Determined to show no fear at the prospect of meeting her future husband for the first time, she straightened her back and patted her hair to ensure the complex nest of braids that crowned her head were still in place as the wheelhouse clattered over the drawbridge and drew to a shuddering halt in the yard, the horses snorting and stamping.

Highgarden was nothing like the Rock, Celia mused. The Rock was a towering behemoth, its towers and crenellations hewn straight from the rough stone of the mountain, whereas Highgarden was a shining white palace straight from the songs, with slim graceful towers and battlements all chased in silvery stone. Tyrell banners fluttered gaily from every tower, golden roses on an emerald background. The Lannister retinue looked quite out of place against all that green.

Ser Garlan Tyrell reined up beside the wheelhouse and dismounted to open the door and help Celia alight. His party had met them on the road to Highgarden and had escorted her to the castle. Myrielle, Janei and Joy were all quite in love with him already; and Celia had to admit, the sight of his handsome face had cheered her regarding the appearance of his brother. Nevertheless, her stomach swooped with nerves as she took Ser Garlan’s offered hand; she endeavoured to ignore it.  _You are a lion of the Rock, and they are nothing but silly golden flowers. They will tremble before you, not the other way around._

Her future husband waited on the steps in front of the huge doors of Highgarden’s entrance chamber, leaning on a cane and surrounded by his household. Celia forced herself not to look at her shoes, but instead hold her head high as she approached on Ser Garlan’s arm.  _A lion,_ she thought desperately,  _I am a lion, brave and fierce._

“May I present Lady Celia Lannister, ward and niece of Lord Tywin,” Ser Garlan said as they both stopped before the steps. “Lady Celia, my brother, Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden.”

Celia barely heard him, focused as she was on the face of her future husband. Willas Tyrell had the same softly curling brown hair as his brother Ser Garlan, the same high cheekbones, though his face was more round, and his eyes darker. _Kind eyes,_ Celia thought. He looked more like a scholar than a warrior – he wore no armour, just a pale green silk doublet over a white shirt, with a brooch of soft gold wrought in the shape of a rose on his breast. He was tall, though, and broad of shoulder, though they were clearly not toned by battle and training as his brother’s were. Celia bit back a little childish disappointment. _What did you expect? His leg is injured, of course he is no warrior, you were told this._

“My lady,” he said softly, kissing her hand. “Highgarden is made brighter by your presence.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, her own voice quiet and soft to her ears. “I am overjoyed to be here.”

He released her hand almost as soon as she said the words and turned to introduce his mother Lady Alerie and the other members of his household, allowing Celia a moment to think as she smiled politely and accepted the kisses and bows of the assembled throngs of Tyrells. _It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference what he looks like,_ she reminded herself sternly, _and if he were handsome, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest._ The Tyrells may have been allies to the Lannisters, but Celia was no fool. Her purpose here was not to fall in love, or wear pretty gowns, or be a loyal wife and good mother. Her purpose was to keep House Tyrell loyal to the Crown, and to House Lannister. _No matter what._

Celia glanced behind her. In the courtyard, the red of House Lannister was mingling with the green of Tyrell everywhere, as her ladies and cousins and the lords of the Westerlands greeted and were greeted by House Tyrell and their vassals; shaking hands, kissing cheeks, curtseying and bowing. Like a vision, Celia could see a different scene, superimposed over reality – swords drawn, and the two families clashing in war, rather than diplomacy, mingling as two separate armies coming together in a charge, and red blood everywhere instead of red cloaks. She blinked, and the image was gone, but the bitter taste of fear remained in her mouth.

“My lady.”

Celia turned back around. Willas Tyrell was offering her his arm.

“Allow me to show you inside the castle,” he asked. He did not smile, but his eyes were warm – or at least, that was how it seemed to Celia. She slipped her arm through his.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Celia, Septa Evelyn, her sister Joy and all her lords and ladies were ushered through the huge double doors into the vast entrance chamber.

The floors and walls were polished marble, hung with yet more Tyrell banners. The vaulted ceiling was light and airy, carved with flowers and vines, as were the pillars and the bannisters of the sweeping staircase that led to the upper floors of the castle. To the right were another pair of doors that led to the Grand Hall, to the left was the audience chamber. Everywhere were displays of the Tyrells’ wealth: rich tapestries, crystal vases overflowing with autumn flowers, gilded hunting horns hung on the walls. Celia couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by it all, but she was guided by Willas Tyrell’s arm linked through hers. He said nothing as they passed through the enormous room, his face stern and closed off. Celia opened her mouth to say something, her heart thumping in her ears, when suddenly he stopped and turned to her.

“You will have to excuse me, Lady Celia. My steward will escort you to your rooms,” he said briskly. Celia was left, red-faced and taken aback, at the bottom of the stairs as her husband-to-be walked away.

Cerenna, Joy, Janei and Myrielle gathered around her. “Well,” said Myrielle in scandalised tones, “What on earth does he mean by that? You think he’d pay a bit more attention to his future bride.” Joy and Janei stared after Willas Tyrell, their mouths both open in innocent surprise.

Cerenna shook her head at her little sister and glared, but the damage to Celia’s pride was done. She could feel her cheeks burning, and the traitorous tears beginning to prick in her eyes. Cerenna put a hand on her shoulder.

“Never mind,” her older cousin murmured. “Maybe something happened, something with the war. There’s the feast tonight and you’ll be seated next to him, so he’ll have to talk to you.” Celia gave her a grateful smile.

“Did you think him handsome, Cee?” Joy giggled. “ _I_ didn’t. He looked funny, to me.”

“Then it’s a good job you’re not to marry him,” Lady Darlessa, Celia’s aunt, said sternly. “Remember your place, girl, and show some respect to your superiors.” Joy went red, and dropped her head.

“Sorry,” she whispered. Celia squeezed her shoulder a little as she passed by.

Lord Tyrell’s steward escorted Celia and her ladies upstairs to their rooms as she pondered her betrothed’s abrupt departure silently.  _Perhaps Cerenna has the right of it. We’ve been on the road for so many weeks now, we’ve hardly had any news of the war. Perhaps things have gotten worse for Queen Margaery in the capital, or Ser Loras on Dragonstone._ Her primary concern, she knew, should be how this possible development would affect House Lannister; but Celia couldn’t help feeling more sorry for Willas Tyrell, even with her own hurt pride to concern her. _He did look worried, as well he might. I shouldn’t wonder that I am more a nuisance to him than a blessing._ The thought was not comforting.

Her room was lovely, at least. She had never slept in a tower before, and the view from her balcony over the Mander was stunning. The room was light and airy, fresh pale pink roses arranged in vases on every surface, and every hanging was pale gold silk. Joy, along with Celia’s other handmaiden Lynora, helped the Tyrell manservants bring her cases in as Celia sat down on the chaise, suddenly exhausted. Septa Evelyn bustled in, red-faced and sweating from climbing the winding staircase. When she spotted Celia’s stormy expression, she stopped.

“Oh, my dear, I know. It was dreadfully rude of him, but I’m afraid you must bear it with grace.”

_Gods give me strength._ Celia sighed. “You are mistaken, Septa. I bear Lord Willas no ill will for his mistake.” _If he spurns me in public again, though, I must make him regret it._ It would not do for her to be thought of as weak by the Reach, and she would only be seen as strong if she publicly had Willas Tyrell’s favour. _Which has nothing to do with liking his warm brown eyes, and wanting him to smile at me._ Joy was right, he  _was_ a little funny looking, with his round face and his glasses, but she liked that face all the same. She shook the thought off.  _You are here to seal an alliance, not to fall in love._

Septa Evelyn seemed pleased by that. “Well done, child. I can see you mean to uphold the honour of you House. Try to see you get some rest before the feast tonight. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.” With that, the septa made her way to her room, which was connected to Celia’s.

Celia lay back on the chaise with a sigh. Janei smiled at her. “At least it's beautiful here. Did you see all the gold inlay on the walls and doors? And all the gardens? There must have been hundreds of different flowers.” Myrielle was admiring the view of the Mander, sparkling beyond the castle walls, from one of Celia’s windows.

“Oh, I wish we could explore,” the Lannister maiden sighed.

Her sister smiled over her shoulder from where she was directing Lynora on where to put Celia’s gowns. “You mean, you wish you could go find those handsome Reacher knights we saw in the courtyard.”

Myrielle coloured. “I do not!”

Cerenna and Joy both laughed, Janei smiled, and Celia began to find her good humour again. “Who says we can’t explore?” she asked, sitting up. “This castle is my home now. Surely no-one would begrudge my looking around.” She got up from the chaise and went to the door. At the entrance, she turned to her ladies. “Coming?” she asked.

Joy, Myrielle and Janei giggled as one and rushed over. Cerenna glanced behind. “Just be sure our distinguished companions and the esteemed septa don’t see us,” she smirked, referring to the older ladies of Celia’s retinue, her aunt Darlessa, Lady Sheira Crakehall, and Lady Alysanne Lefford. They were all away in the solar, talking quietly among one another. One by one, Celia and her younger ladies slipped out of the room.

The corridors of Highgarden echoed with faint giggles as the girls peeked around corners and into rooms. Even Cerenna, a woman grown, was laughing; though mostly at the childish excitement of her sister Myrielle and the younger girls.

Celia saw more sitting rooms and libraries than she thought it possible for a castle to have; though, to be sure, there were still not as many rooms as in the Rock. The Rock was more cramped, though, with all the weight of the earth above, since most of the residential areas were underground, with only the watch towers, armouries, training yards, barracks and stables on the surface. Celia had slept all her life in a little room with a tiny round window carved in the rock, and pillars carved straight from the rough unfinished stone. It had its own kind of beauty, she felt loyally; but Highgarden was more traditionally lovely. Every room had vaulted ceilings of white stone, carved elaborately with flowers and leaves; some rooms were panelled, in wood stained a deep forest green, with gilded chasings. Each one was richly furnished in golden wood and green silk.

There was a delicious wicked excitement to wandering the castle unchaperoned, hiding whenever they heard footsteps. No matter Celia’s confident words when they left her rooms; she knew it was not expected or allowed for her to roam the castle unattended. _Well, I didn’t expect my betrothed to barely say two words to me, nor leave me alone five minutes after I first set eyes on him._ When they overheard voices behind a closed door in the East Wing, it was Myrielle who crept closer to hear, however.

“Myri!” Cerenna hissed. “Don’t be a bloody fool!”

Myrielle merely smirked at her older sister, and pressed a finger to her lips. She leaned her ear against the door again.

“Myrielle,” Celia whispered desperately. “Come away.” _She doesn’t understand. If they catch her listening at the door like that, if_ anyone _catches her, they will think she’s spying, for Queen Cersei or Ser Kevan, somebody. The Tyrells cannot mistrust us. They cannot mistrust_ me.

Myrielle grinned wider, like a cat, and did come away. “It’s your betrothed,” she giggled wickedly at Celia, clearly enjoying herself. “Come, listen for yourself, Cee. Don’t you want to know what he’s saying about you behind closed doors?”

_It isn’t him. And even if it is, he isn’t talking about me. It’s just Myrielle being a silly little girl, as usual._ Even so, doubt and curiosity pricked at Celia. Cerenna tried to take hold of her sleeve and pull her back as she approached the door, but she shook her cousin off.

But as Celia went to lean her ear against the wood of the door, she heard footsteps, and leaned away just before the door was yanked open in anger.

Behind her, Myrielle, Janei and Joy erupted in a chorus of hushed giggles. Celia did not look around at them; instead, she stared in horror and surprise at her future husband, standing in the doorway. He looked back at her with equal surprise.

“Lady Celia. I…I did not expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you, my lord,” Celia said with difficulty, trying to soothe her embarrassed blushes. “Forgive me, please, I…” she trailed off, unable to find an excuse for her presence.

Willas Tyrell’s face flickered from surprise to bemusement, but he also said nothing, and Celia thought she saw a faint blush creep into his own cheeks. _Is he just as nervous as I?_ The thought almost made her laugh – that a grown man, the heir to a great House, would be as nervous as a maiden _was_ ridiculous, especially one said to be as learned and clever as Willas Tyrell. He opened his mouth at last, as if to speak to her, but was interrupted.

His grandmother came up behind him, an acidic expression on her face. “I can see you have been neglected, my lady,” she said curtly to Celia. “Otherwise you would not have been forced to wander the castle, seeking your own entertainment.” Lord Willas gave his grandmother a kind of exasperated look, though Celia thought she saw him smiling at little.

_He is laughing at me,_ Celia despaired. _He thinks me a stupid little girl, and very like I am._ She could not reply, only stare at her toes.

His mother, Lady Alerie, had appeared behind Lord Willas and Lady Olenna in the doorway. Lady Alerie looked taken aback, and Lady Olenna arched an eyebrow at her good-daughter. Both their expressions brought misery to Celia’s heart. _Am I really now to be scolded, like some child? I should never have left my rooms, I should have behaved like a lady, like a grown woman, not a little girl. Gods, I am so stupid!_

“Never mind,” Lord Willas said quickly. “There was no harm in it, I know. And if I had not run off to deal with…” He coloured himself, and glanced down the corridor at Janei, then looked back at Celia. She raised her eyes back to his, unsure. “I owe you an apology,” he said directly to her. “I’m afraid as you arrived we received some distressing news, which I intended to bring to you as soon as I was done discussing with my mother and grandmother…but now you are here, my lady, I suppose I should tell you now.”

“Perhaps you ought to come in, and sit down,” Lady Alerie said kindly. “My ladies,” she addressed to Celia’s companions, “Why don’t you go down to East Garden? Some of your companions are down there already, I’m sure they’ll be wondering where you got to.” The girls all curtseyed, and left, with Joy staring over her shoulder at Celia as they parted company. Lady Olenna pursed her lips, but said nothing. _I had heard they call her the Queen of Thorns, and so far she has certainly lived up to the name,_ Celia thought as Lord Willas ushered her into the solar, past his grandmother.

“Please, sit down, my lady,” he said gently, pulling out a chair with the hand which didn’t rest on the golden handle of his cane. Celia did as he bid, very conscious of his presence behind her. Lady Olenna and Lady Alerie sat at the round table as well, opposite Celia, the older woman still regarding Celia with a critical eye.

Lord Willas seated himself between his lady grandmother and mother. His rounded face was grave and serious, with his brows drawn in anxiety. Celia found herself twisting her fingers in her lap.

“My lady, I fear we have had grave tidings from King’s Landing. Your uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, has disappeared. The Small Council fear him dead.”

_No. No, that cannot be._ Celia had watched her uncle Kevan ride out from Casterly Rock with his lord brother, her uncle Tywin, with her own eyes. She had held Janei’s hand as the great Western host filed out, sure in her heart she would see them all safe again in a moon’s turn, or two, at the very most. Now both her uncles were dead, and she would never see them again. _Oh gods, Janei, and Lady Dorna._ Janei’s mother had stayed in the Rock, still too deep in mourning for her son to attend the wedding. _Now she must mourn my uncle too, and Janei has lost her father as well as her brother, and is so far away from her mother._

The Tyrells were watching her process the news. Celia could feel their eyes on her. _This is a test. One I must pass._

She straightened her spine, and placed her hands flat in her lap, looking Willas Tyrell straight in the eyes. _No tears. Lions do not cry._ “Is there any other news from King’s Landing? Is King Tommen safe, and my cousin the Queen Regent?” _Remind them that you have royal kin. Show them you are not to be trifled with._

“They are well, my lady,” Lord Willas replied.

“And what of my cousin Janei, Ser Kevan’s daughter? She should be with her mother, in the Rock, where they can grieve together. My aunt Dorna will want the comfort of her remaining children near her.”

“Out of the question,” replied the little old Queen of Thorns. Celia looked at her with open-mouthed confusion, and anger.

“What?”

“Oh, do close your mouth, child, you look like a fish. Your little cousin will stay here, in Highgarden, with the rest of your giggly yellow-haired kin.” The old woman sighed, as if Celia’s question had been foolish in the first place.

“The roads are so unsafe, these days,” Lady Alerie said soothingly, trying to be the balm to Lady Olenna’s fire. “It would be so tragic for Lady Dorna to lose a daughter, on top of her son and husband. We would not dare risk it, my lady.”

_Was that a veiled threat?_ Celia could feel paranoia creeping in. _Ser Kevan, dead. It cannot be. I thought he and my uncle Tywin would live forever. How can I ever feel safe again?_

“We will give your cousin every comfort we can,” Lord Willas said gently, leaning over the table a little. He smiled at Celia, for the first time – warm, and reassuring. “It will do her good, to be entertained, to be distracted from her grief. And I know my mother and grandmother will take special care of her. Highgarden is her home now, as it is yours.”

Celia could think of no reply to that. She wanted to trust him – he was to be her husband, after all, and he _seemed_ kind-hearted – but everything felt wrong here. _Even sweet, soft-spoken Lady Alerie could be hiding a cruel heart. And the Queen of Thorns is certainly not to be trifled with._ Celia rose.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, my ladies, I think I must change for the feast now,” she said stiffly. The Tyrells stood as well, Lord Willas leaning heavily on his cane.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he said in his deep, soft voice. Celia wanted to hold her head high and tell him that would not be necessary, but she saw no advantage in disdaining him now. _He is trying to make a bridge between us, and I should try to help him._ She took his proffered arm. She was highly aware of the warmth of his body, through his sleeve.

“I am truly sorry for your loss, my lady,” he told her as they climbed the stairs to her rooms, her guards following a little behind. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Ser Kevan, but I heard he was a good and loyal man.”

“He was,” Celia replied. “After my father disappeared, he was very good to me.”

In truth, Ser Kevan had been a far closer, warmer figure than Celia’s official guardian Lord Tywin. She had played with all his children as a girl, and loved them as siblings; eaten meals with Ser Kevan and his wife, as if she were his own daughter – he had even written to her when her betrothal was announced, to express his disappointment that he could not be there to give her away to her husband. All that was nothing, though, compared to Celia’s fear for the future, with both her uncles gone. The world was suddenly much bigger, and much more dangerous.

“I suppose my cousin, Queen Cersei, rules alone in King’s Landing now,” she said, more to herself really than to Willas Tyrell. He nodded.

“I’m sure the Queen Regent will manage well, have no fear. I hear she is a clever and noble woman.”

Celia bit back her bitter laughter. _Is that what you hear, my lord?_ Most of Celia’s memories of her older cousin were hazy with time, since Celia had only been a babe in arms when Cersei left the Rock to wed Robert Baratheon – what Celia could recall, seemed mostly to be slights and dismissive words at feasts, and Cersei chiding her brother Jaime for paying the slightest bit of attention to their little cousin whenever they visited together. Celia would not have included the words ‘clever’ or ‘noble’ among Cersei’s descriptors.

“And she will have your lord father to help her,” Celia said politely instead.

“And all of House Tyrell,” Willas agreed. Celia tried to study his face, for signs that he was sincere, or that he was mocking her. But his expression was mild, giving nothing away. “We hope always to serve the rightful king.” _Empty platitudes, nothing more. When will he really_ talk _to me, I wonder?_

They stopped outside of the door to her rooms. Celia curtseyed politely. “Thank you for your kindness, my lord,” she said.

To her surprise, Willas Tyrell laid a hand on her arm. His face was flushed again, but filled with earnest concern. “I know this news must come as a shock, when you’ve only just arrived,” he said, “And I hope – that is, I want you to know -” He struggled for the words a moment. He shook his head, as if exasperated with himself. “I hope you will be happy here, my lady,” he finished finally.

Celia smiled. Suddenly, there was a feeling of equality between them. “I’m sure I will be,” she said, trying to put him out of his misery. He returned her smile, and Celia thought it now seemed grateful. He was still standing there, as she went inside her rooms at last.


	3. Willas I

Alerie Hightower looked nervously up at her son as he stood, simmering with barely suppressed rage, by the window in his father’s solar.

 “Willas, please, sit. Standing there can’t be doing your leg any good, and you’re making me nervous.”

 Willas ignored her, not trusting himself to speak. She was right, his leg did hurt, but he couldn’t bear to sit down, as angry as he was. The atmosphere was tense and fraught, as it had been ever since the raven had come from Casterly Rock.

 The tense silence was broken by the door being flung open and his grandmother, Lady Olenna, tottering in, flanked as ever by her twin guards.

 “Damn you, Willas, why on earth did you make me climb all those flights of stairs for some silly tantrum?” she snapped, collapsing on one of the chairs.

 “This is more than a tantrum,” he replied, his anger barely in check. “What in seven hells is Father thinking, accepting this Lannister marriage?”

 “For once he is using his head. This marriage is necessary, even your father can see that.”

 “Necessary? How? They got Margaery for Joffrey first and now Tommen as well, isn’t that enough?”

 “You forget, it was  _us_ that forced Margaery on  _them._ I suppose it’s only fair that they force a wedding on us in turn.”

 “Fair? How is it fair to force us to host a wedding here, with Margaery imprisoned and Loras dying on Dragonstone? The Shield Islands are under attack, the Ironborn could be sailing up the Mander as we speak, and yet the Lannisters expect us to put all our troubles on hold for their damn marriage? Seven hells, the least they could do is allow us a year, a few months even.”

 Lady Olenna seemed less than impressed with this outburst.

 “Are you quite finished?”

 “Well, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable,” Willas snapped in reply.

 “Yes, you are. We forced them to marry Margaery to Tommen. Now they are doing the same to us. I call that fair play. You’re just unhappy because you weren’t allowed to choose the girl yourself, but you needn’t fret, I’m told she’s quite beautiful.”

_Gods, I hope not._ Willas supposed it was inevitable she be beautiful, though; she was a Lannister, after all. Still, he was feeling uncharacteristically anxious about this rumoured Lannister beauty – not that she herself might be ugly, but that she would consider him so. Willas had always thought of himself as too sensible to be self-conscious of his looks, though no-one could deny he was not as good-looking as his younger brothers, both with their high cheekbones and lazy curls, muscled like a maiden’s dream. Willas had contented himself with being the clever brother, and the leader, and had always felt it below the dignity of the heir to Highgarden to bother with any vanity. _Except under certain circumstances. Such as the present ones._

Then again, at this moment the beauty, or lack thereof, of his bride was the least of his problems. This wedding had brought on a whole host of issues, so soon after the news of Margaery’s arrest and Loras’ terrible injuries, and Willas was already feeling the strain of hosting such a huge event. Even in the last days of war, the wedding of a future Lord Paramount was an extravagant affair, and scores of landed knights, minor lordlings sworn to House Tyrell, and junior members of great houses had already arrived and created a city of silk tents and fluttering banners below the walls of Highgarden. And House Tyrell’s more powerful vassals had not even arrived yet. Willas had no idea how he was to house and feed them all. Lord Hightower had already announced his intention to send almost his entire family; his wife, eight of his children and their spouses too.

 “I don’t even understand why we must put on such a show. Don’t you think it’s a little distasteful, when people are starving up and down the Seven Kingdoms?”

 “Now you sound like that dreadful High Sparrow. Would you have us all go barefoot and in rags to your wedding?”

 Willas shifted his weight from one leg to the other and glanced despairingly at his grandmother.

 “Please, Olenna,” said Lady Alerie quietly. “Don’t speak of all that trouble now.”

 Willas glared at his mother. “And when should we speak of it, mother?” he snapped, feeling uncharacteristically cruel. “When Margaery is a head shorter and King’s Landing burnt to the ground?”

 Lady Alerie looked up in shock at her usually gentle and soft-spoken son. Lady Olenna tutted and shook her head.

 “No need to take that tone. She’s right. We must put aside our troubles for now and concentrate on this wedding. It’s our chance to show the Lannisters we’re still powerful and stable enough to match them.”

 Willas knew that she was right. Their position was a wildly unstable one, their alliance with the Lannisters a hair’s breadth from collapsing. This marriage was vital, if the Tyrells and the Lannisters were to maintain control of Westeros. That didn’t mean Willas had to like it, though. He would put aside his feelings and play the gracious host and joyous bridegroom, but the second it was over, he intended to focus all his energy on keeping Margaery safe and the Ironborn out of the Reach.

 As his lady mother and grandmother left, Willas’ steward, Sinclair, slipped into the room. Willas sighed internally. He had hoped for a few moments rest at least, but it seemed that even as his wedding approached, he must still be a slave to his duty. He sat down heavily, glad of the opportunity to at least rest his leg.

 “My lord, I’m sorry to bother you…”

 “What is it, Sinclair?”

 “We’ve finally had word from the Westerlands about which lords will be attending the wedding.”

 “Ah, I see. Well, don’t keep me in suspense. How many, and how much will they cost us?”

 “Lord Marbrand, Lord Banefort, Lord Brax. Lord Crakehall, and his son Ser Tybolt. Lord Kenning, Lady Lefford, Lord Lydden, and finally, Lord Prester. Eight in all.”

 “And I assume we’ll be getting their household knights as well?”

 “It would seem so, my lord. Their knights and men-at-arms will camp outside the castle walls, but we’ll have to find rooms for the lords.”

 “Of course. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

 Already Highgarden was housing four of House Tyrell’s vassals; Lord Ambrose and Lady Oakheart had arrived one month past, and Lord Redwyne’s family had arrived a week before Lord Paxter himself had sailed up the Mander with his fleet, stopping for the wedding on his way to retake the Shields. And that wasn’t even mentioning the hordes of Tyrell relatives that had descended like a plague of locusts on the castle.

 “Well, my lord, it may be. We have yet to find a place for Lord Hightower’s party. We’ll need seven rooms, one for each of them and their spouses, and Lord Hightower will be offended if we don’t find them spacious apartments. With so many extra people in the castle…”

 “Say no more. Garlan’s rooms are occupied once more, and we’re already preparing Margaery’s for Lady Celia...but Loras’ rooms are unoccupied. I know it might seem a little distasteful, but if we’ve really nowhere else to put them…”

 “I’ll have them prepared immediately, my lord. There is one other thing…”

 Willas sighed again. “Yes, Sinclair?”

 “We’ve had word from Ser Lucion Lannister that your bride’s party have left the Rock and are making good time towards Highgarden. They should be here in a few weeks.”

 A feeling of dread settled in Willas’ stomach, but he pushed it aside. “Good. Ensure that everything is made ready for Lady Celia. Her arrival is the priority, see to her needs before any of the guests.”

 “As you say, my lord.”

 Sinclair bowed as he took his leave, and Willas sat in silence for a moment, pondering the arrival of his bride. Many people had told him of her rumoured beauty, but not a word was said of her character, and Willas couldn’t help but worry. He wanted to like the girl, to make her feel welcome, but he wasn’t sure he could fake affection if he didn’t truly feel it. He dreaded the awkward and embarrassing few weeks that were no doubt to come, and wished, not for the first time, that he could speak to his sister Margaery. She would roll her eyes and tell him to simply have patience and be gentle, but he wished she were here all the same. His sister was clever and sharp, but she could also be nurturing and kind when she wanted to be. He missed her every day, and worried about her constantly.

Willas pushed those thoughts aside. _Margaery may not be safe at home, but she is being guarded by Lord Tarly; for the moment, she is being taken care of._ Willas knew that however much he may have wanted to order Margaery back to Highgarden and safety, he could not. All he could do was focus on strengthening House Tyrell, and the best way to do that was his marriage to Celia Lannister.

The morning his bride arrived, Willas woke with a sick feeling of apprehension in his chest. All morning, he didn’t know what to do with himself. At first, he stayed in the library, trying to read, but within a few minutes his nerves forced him to abandon the attempt. He strode nervously from room to room, silently thanking the Seven that his leg wasn’t hurting as much as it could, at least not yet. It varied from day to day; today, he could walk quickly and with relative ease despite his limp, but some days his leg was so stiff and painful he couldn’t move it at all. Thankfully, today was a good day. He didn’t know what he would have done if he’d been forced to meet his bride with his leg in agony.

When the Lannister retinue finally arrived, Willas felt a great sense of relief that his torturous wait was over, coupled with the sick feeling of renewed nervousness at the prospect of making a good first impression on Celia Lannister. It wasn’t as if he’d never been in a situation like this before; as the heir to Highgarden he’d been a sought-after match since he was a child, and he’d been introduced to many girls with the expectation that he might marry one of them. However, he’d never been very good at charming them - he always came off as too serious and bookish, or cold and unfeeling because of his nerves. If he gave that impression today, it would make the next few weeks very awkward.

Celia Lannister arrived with a blare of trumpets and the sound of clattering hooves, the great red wheelhouse travelling a wide circuit around the yard before drawing to a halt. Near two hundred horse came behind her – her cousin Ser Lucion, his grandfather Ser Damon Lannister, and scores of Lannister men-at-arms, along with the lesser lords of the Westerlands; Quenten Banefort, Tytos Brax, Roland Crakehall, to name but a few. Willas swallowed his nerves as his brother Garlan dismounted and opened the door, helping the young lady inside to alight.

Willas’ bride was slender as a willow, long golden hair curling slightly to the middle of her back, clad in a flowing gown of scarlet silk with glittering gold embroidery on the shoulders. Even from the top of the steps, Willas could see that she was lovely, which only made his nerves worse. He’d always had the worst trouble talking to the pretty ones.

Garlan introduced them, and Willas focused on remembering his courtesies, trying not to be distracted by her big green eyes gazing up at him. Even so, he heard himself stumble over the words as he took her hand and kissed it. She didn’t smile, and replied in a voice so soft and faint Willas scarcely heard her. _We’re both as nervous as each other, I suppose._

Her ladies came behind her – seven, as was traditional, for the seven gods. Four of them were near identical to Willas’ eyes – her Lannister cousins, no doubt, all golden haired and green eyed save for one. _The blue-eyed one is her sister, probably._ They looked very like, but then, all the Lannister girls did.

“My lord,” Celia Lannister said in that same soft, shy voice, “may I introduce my cousins – Lady Janei Lannister, daughter of Ser Kevan, and Lady Cerenna and Lady Myrielle, daughters of my cousin Ser Stafford. And this is my sister, Joy.” The baseborn girl smiled shyly as she curtseyed.

Willas recognised Cerenna Lannister from tourneys past, but the other three were girls of an age with Margaery, and he’d never seen them before. _I’ll never remember their names._ The older women were somewhat easier to tell apart – Sheira Crakehall was short and plump with merry brown eyes that matched the brindled boar on her cloak, Alysanne Lefford tall and dignified with golden hair piled on her head, and Darlessa Marbrand’s dark hair was shot through with silver. Willas nodded to all of them as his betrothed introduced them all one by one.

His mother stepped forward to kiss little Celia Lannister on both cheeks and welcome her to Highgarden, and as Willas turned away, his brother laid a hand on his arm.

 “I need to talk to you,” Garlan said in a low, urgent voice.

“Can’t it wait? I should stay with her, show her to her rooms.”

“You’ll have to leave her, I’m afraid. It’ll look bad, but this can’t wait, I’m sorry.”

Willas frowned at his younger brother. “It’s really that serious? What happened?”

“Later, in Father’s solar. I don’t want the whole castle overhearing this.”

Dread settled in Willas' stomach, and his mind reeled with the possibilities of what terrible news Garlan had heard on the road.  _Loras is dead….Margaery’s been found guilty...Father’s been killed…._

He walked Lady Celia into the castle still absorbed by his own thoughts, barely aware of her presence beside him. When they got to the bottom of the staircase, he saw Garlan at the end of a side corridor and let go of her arm, glancing at her for a second before dismissing her. He felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at her surprised and embarrassed expression before pushing it down.  _It can’t be helped. I’ll apologise later, at the feast._

Willas joined Garlan in the solar and his brother waited before closing the door behind his mother and grandmother, who also joined them.

“I hope you have a good reason for forcing me to very rudely abandon my future wife,” said Willas with more force than he intended. Garlan gave him an apologetic look.

“I do. We received word on the road from Brightwater Keep that Ser Kevan Lannister has gone missing. Odds are good he’s dead.”

Silence settled over the little group as each of them took in exactly what that meant. Lady Olenna was the first to recover.

“Damn. Ser Kevan was the only thing keeping Cersei Lannister in check. With him gone, there’ll be no-one left to take charge in King’s Landing but her, Seven save us.”

“What does this mean for our alliance?” Willas asked quickly.

“You mean what does this mean for your marriage?” Olenna replied. “Nothing good, I’m afraid. I hope you’re not too attached to the girl already, because soon we may be forced to abandon the Lannisters and find an ally elsewhere.”

_Well, at least my offending her is the least of our worries now,_ Willas thought grimly. “We can’t just break off the betrothal. She’s already here, it’s happening.”

“We may have to. If the Lannisters lose control of the Iron Throne, what good are they to us?” Lady Olenna shot back.

“It’s irrelevant. With Margaery wed to Tommen and me betrothed to Lady Celia, we’re with them now, for good and all.”

“Marriages can be undone. Margaery is still a maiden, which is a miracle in and of itself, so we can easily have her marriage dissolved. Her position is weak anyway, now that the Faith has levelled its charges against her and Cersei Lannister is once again in position to be Tommen’s regent. And you are not yet wed, so any promises we made to the Lannisters regarding that can be broken at a moment's notice.”

“And if we break with the Lannisters, who do we turn to? Stannis? Freezing himself and his army to death at the other end of the kingdoms when last we heard. _We have no other choice_. Unless you mean for us to take the throne ourselves and crown Father king,” Willas scoffed. His grandmother smirked.

“Don’t be facetious, Willas. You know I only mean to advise _caution._ There are other threats outside of Westeros – or have you forgotten Daenerys Targaryen?”

Willas laughed aloud at that. “The Targaryen girl? Sacking cities half a world away, while the Lannisters are _here,_ and very much in a position to destroy us if we break faith with them.”  

Lady Alerie interjected. “Willas is right, we mustn't be too hasty. This may not be the end of the Lannisters, and until we are certain they’re no longer useful, we should keep them close. We have a few weeks until Willas’ wedding, we should use the time to decide what to do. We can even delay the wedding if we must.”

Garlan nodded in agreement, and even Lady Olenna seemed content with that, but Willas had his misgivings. “Did any of you see all those red cloaks in the yard, all those Lannister swords in the castle? Enough to make a bloody end to House Tyrell, should we insult them.”

“There’s no fear of that,” Lady Olenna laughed. “Your little blonde bride and her giggly cousins will serve as hostages against House Lannister’s wrath.”

Willas felt his anger rising at that. “ _Only_ once we are wed, and the lords of the Westerlands are all gone from Highgarden. Or had you forgotten that, grandmother?” He usually got on well with his grandmother, but today he was _tired,_ and sick of the going back and forth. And a certain pair of green eyes kept coming back into his mind.

“I hope you’re not in love with the little lioness already, Willas,” Lady Olenna replied archly. “It would not do for you to start thinking with your cock at such a sensitive time.”

Willas had heard enough. Red-faced, he yanked the door open, only to find the very object of the discussion looking back at him, face equally flushed.

“Lady Celia.” _She really is very pretty._ Especially with her cheeks flushed and her rosebud mouth open like that. Willas tried to gather his thoughts. “I…I did not expect to see you here.” _Obviously. Idiot._

A chorus of giggles came echoing down the corridor. Lady Celia’s sister and cousins were stood a little way down the hall, all obviously embarrassed to have been caught sneaking around. Willas felt a twinge of misgiving as he beheld Janei Lannister, distinctive by her blue gown. _Oh gods, I suppose someone must tell her about Ser Kevan._

Willas cringed as Lady Olenna looked around the doorframe to see what the matter was. “I can see you have been neglected, my lady,” she said curtly to Lady Celia, who looked mortified. “Otherwise you would not have been forced to wander the castle, seeking your own entertainment.”

It was hard not to laugh, though that would have been cruel, to poke fun when the Lannister girl was so obviously embarrassed. Willas thought he saw tears prick into her green eyes, and decided to put a stop to the mummer’s farce before it got any worse. _It’s my fault, really, for leaving her alone._

“Never mind,” Willas said quickly. “There was no harm in it, I know. And if I had not run off to deal with…” _Gods, here we go. I suppose there’s no time like the present._ “I owe you an apology,” he said directly to Lady Celia. “I’m afraid as you arrived we received some distressing news, which I intended to bring to you as soon as I was done discussing with my brother, mother and grandmother…but now you are here, my lady, I suppose I should tell you now.”

Willas’ mother dismissed the other girls, and Willas knew she must have made arrangements for the older Westerlands women to take Janei Lannister aside and break the news to her. Lady Alerie had a talent for quietly arranging things in the background. Willas pulled a chair out for Lady Celia awkwardly while trying to manoeuvre his cane.

Willas sat down opposite her. Her green-eyed gaze was guarded and faintly hostile, her pretty face closed off and cold. Willas couldn’t help but be nervous under that cool look, though she was certainly not intimidating, slender and delicately beautiful as she was. Willas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“My lady, I fear we have had grave tidings from King’s Landing. Your uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, has disappeared. The Small Council fear him dead.”

Willas had expected weeping, or fear. Lady Celia merely raised her chin and looked Willas chillingly in the eyes. He had never seen a girl her age look so solemn, or in control. It was nearly frightening. She asked him questions about the safety of her cousin Queen Cersei with a tone that was almost regal itself, and Willas couldn’t help feeling interrogated. The girl commanded that her cousin Janei be sent back to the Rock like a little queen herself, so suddenly like Margaery that Willas had to smile. _It’s touching, how she cares for her little cousin._

“We will give your cousin every comfort we can,” Willas said, trying to show her some reassurance in his smile. “It will do her good, to be entertained, to be distracted from her grief. And I know my mother and grandmother will take special care of her.” He resisted the urge to glare at his grandmother there, knowing she would play her part, however reluctantly. “Highgarden is her home now, as it is yours.”

The girl did not seem reassured. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, my ladies, I think I must change for the feast now,” she said coolly, standing without waiting for a reply. Willas stood as well, cursing his leg.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he said quickly, holding out his arm. For a second he thought she might refuse him, but then her frosty expression melted a little, and she took his arm. _She is in shock. Naturally, she seems cold._

The walk up to her chambers was excruciating. They talked, and Willas tried to offer her courtesies, but he knew that she needed more. _We talked of her as a hostage, a cyvasse piece for us to move around the board._ But as she held his arm, and he glanced sideways at her solemn, guarded face, he could not deny that she was a flesh-and-blood person. It had been easier to pretend when she was a faceless figure, a possibility in his future, a line in a letter from King’s Landing brokering the marriage contract.

When they reached her door, they stopped and she turned to him. She curtseyed, her eyes fixed on the floor once again. “Thank you for your kindness, my lord,” she said, her voice expressionless.

Willas felt a sudden surge of pity. _How can I make her see I am on her side?_ He was startled by his own thought. _I can’t, because I’m not._ Still, he found himself wanting to reach through her armour of courtesy, to offer her real comfort. He laid a hand on her arm.

“I know this news must come as a shock, when you’ve only just arrived,” he said, “And I hope – that is, I want you to know -” He struggled for the words a moment. _Gods damn it, why is so hard to talk to them when they’re pretty?_ “I hope you will be happy here, my lady,” he finished finally, lamely. She was smiling at him, though – or perhaps it was only a trick of the light.

“I’m sure I will be,” she said gently, and disappeared into her rooms. _If the gods are good, and our Houses are not at war by winter. And when have the gods ever been good?_

Consumed with guilt, Willas walked back to his rooms to prepare for the feast. Sitting next to Lady Celia all night would be agony, but at least they would have another opportunity to talk to one another. _As if it will do any good._

The castle was buzzing with activity as hundreds of wedding guests prepared for the feast, servants dashing back and forth running errands and fetching pails of hot water. Willas climbed the steps to his room with growing apprehension once again. He washed, dressed, and met his mother, grandmother, brother and good-sister in the ante chamber outside the feast hall.

Lady Olenna was in green silk and gold brocade, Lady Alerie dignified in dusky grey silk with silver rings in her dark braid, and Lady Leonette Fossoway in pale blue on Garlan’s arm. He grinned sardonically at his older brother.

“So, the little lioness didn’t savage you too much?”

“Oh, don’t joke. I could hear _The Rains of Castamere_ playing the entire way up the stairs.” Lady Leonette laughed sweetly at that.

“Poor child, though,” she said suddenly, her smile fading. “She must be so shocked. Little Janei Lannister burst into tears and ran away when they told her. What an awful way to start a wedding.”

“None of this seems right,” Willas sighed to his good-sister. “I thought weddings were supposed to be happy occasions. All this death seems inappropriate.”

“Tell that to Robb Stark,” Garlan said darkly.

_And pray I don’t end up like him._ Willas opened his mouth to reply to his brother, but was interrupted by the herald announcing the lords and ladies of the West – Celia Lannister being first among them.

When she appeared on the staircase, Willas was once again rendered speechless. She was dressed in a gown of red silk, with a wide skirt and fitted bodice embroidered with glittering gold thread, and sleeves that encased her slim arms to the wrists but left her shoulders bare. The front of her hair was arranged in a complex updo, secured by ruby topped pins, with the back left to tumble down her shoulders in smooth, shining waves. A necklace of rubies set in intricate goldwork encircled her neck. She looked glorious, but cold, with not a hint of warmth in her pale green eyes.

She approached Willas, Garlan and Leonette with her ladies trailing behind her. Janei Lannister was not among them.

Willas swallowed. “My lady, you look exquisite,” he said, well aware that he sounded ridiculous, trying to make up for his earlier offence with empty courtesies.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied in a flat voice.

She looked like she would rather be anywhere but the feast hall, but she took Willas’ arm and allowed him to lead her to the Grand Hall all the same. It had been decorated with red and gold roses especially in her honour, with the lion banner sharing a place beside the gold rose of Highgarden. They entered the hall first and took their places on the dais in silence, as his mother entered, escorted by Lord Marbrand, Lady Celia’s maternal grandfather, then Garlan with Lady Darlessa Marbrand, Lady Leonette with Ser Lucion Lannister and finally Willas’ grandmother and Ser Damon Lannister. When they were all seated, the feasting began in earnest, and the long hall rang with shouts, laughter and music.

Willas picked at his food and tried to think of something to say to his betrothed, who sat by his side in silence, eyes on her food, avoiding his gaze. He could feel how uncomfortable she was, lost in her grief no doubt; he longed to say something that would bring her out of her own head, but he could think of nothing. To her left, Willas’ mother engaged Lady Celia in polite conversation, and she replied with grace, but it seemed her heart was not in it and within minutes they were back to silence, punctuated only with the shouts and laughter from the lower tables. The courses dragged on and on, until finally the last of the meal was cleared away and the music changed. People began to stand up from the tables and move towards the open space in the middle of the hall. Lady Celia sat up when she noticed what was happening, and for the first time Willas saw a genuine smile light up her face.

“Is it time for the dancing?” she asked with almost child-like happiness.

“Do you enjoy dancing, my lady?” he replied, pouncing eagerly on the new topic of conversation.

“I adore it,” she said with genuine feeling. “Do you dance much, my lord?”

Willas felt his face turn red. “No, I’m afraid not, my lady. My leg, you see…”

Lady Celia’s face fell, and she blushed prettily. “Oh, how silly of me...of course...forgive me, my lord.” She lapsed back into silence again, watching the swirling figures dancing below the dais with a glum expression. Willas felt a surge of embarrassment. He’d just found out about something she enjoyed, finally something that could make her happy, and he couldn’t use it. He felt utterly useless.

“Please, my lady,” he said quietly, “Don’t deny yourself on my account. I’m sure every man in the hall is dying to dance with you.”

A ghost of a smile danced around her full lips. “Thank you, my lord.”

First to approach her was Garlan, but he was not the last. As Willas had predicted, almost every man in the hall wanted a dance with the future Lady of Highgarden, and she obliged each of them with perfect grace. He watched her twirl around the hall, an elegant swirl of red and gold, and felt a pang of sadness. _I could love her, but I doubt she would look at me if we weren’t already betrothed. Perhaps she would be happy if I spurned her, in the end._

Unable to bear watching her any longer, Willas slipped from the hall and went to bed.


End file.
